“Why is Evelyn selling the horse?”
“She’s got Handyman, and when she retired she thought she’d have more time, so she bought this young horse. But Evelyn’s like Larry Johnson. She’s working harder in retirement than before.”
“Why don’t you talk to her? Sound her out for me? I’d like to buy the mare if she suits and then let Harry pay me off over time.”
“Uh—let me buy the mare. In fact, I wish I’d thought of this myself.”
“We can share the expense. Who’s to know?” Mim swung her legs under the chair.
41
The night turned unseasonably cool. The Reverend Jones built a fire in his study, his favorite room. The dark green leather chairs bore testimony to years of use; knitted afghans were tossed over the arms to hide the wear. Herb Jones usually wrapped one around his legs as he sat reading a book accompanied by Lucy Fur, the young Maine coon cat he’d brought home to enliven Elocution, or Ella, his older first cat.
Tonight Ansley and Warren Randolph and Mim Sanburne joined him. They were finishing up planning Kimball’s memorial service.
“Miranda’s taking care of the music.” Mim checked that off her list. “Little Marilyn’s hired the caterer. You’ve got the flowers under control.”
“Right.” Ansley nodded.
“And I’m getting a program printed up.” Warren scratched his chin. “What do you call it? It’s not really a program.”
“In Memoriam,” Ansley volunteered. “Actually, whatever you call it, you’ve done a beautiful job. I had no idea you knew so much about Kimball.”
“Didn’t. Asked Oliver Zeve for Kimball’s r?sum?.”
Mim, without looking up from her list, continued checking off jobs.“Parking.”
“Monticello, or should I say Oliver, is taking care of that?”
“Well, that’s it, then.” Mim put down her pencil. She could have afforded any kind of expensive pencil, but she preferred a wooden one, an Eagle Mirado Number 1. She carried a dozen in a cardboard container, the sale carton, wherever she journeyed. Carried a pencil trimmer too.
The little group stared into the fire.
Herb roused himself from its hypnotic powers.“Can I fetch anyone another drink? Coffee?”
“No thanks,” everyone replied.
“Herb, you know people’s secrets. You and Larry Johnson.” Ansley folded her hands together. “Do you have any idea, any hunch, no matter how wild?”
Herb glanced up at the ceiling, then back at the group.“No. I’ve gone over the facts, or what we know as the facts, in my mind so many times I make myself dizzy. Nothing jumps out at me. But even if Kimball or the sheriff uncover the secret of the corpse at Monticello, I don’t know if that will have anything to do with Kimball’s murder. It’s tempting to connect the two, but I can’t find any link.”
Mim stood up.“Well, I’d better be going. We’ve pulled a lot together on very short notice. I thank you all.” She hesitated. “I’m sorry about the circumstances, much as I like working with everyone.”
Warren and Ansley left about ten minutes later. Driving the dark, winding roads kept Warren alert.
“Honey …” Ansley watched for deer along the sides of the road—the light would bounce off their eyes. “Did you tell anyone that Kimball read the Randolph papers?”
“No, did you?”
“Of course not—make you look like a suspect.”
“Why me?”
“Because women rarely kill.” She squinted into the inky night. “Slow down.”
“Do you think I killed Kimball?”
“Well, I know you sent that letter with the cut-out message to Mim.”
He decelerated for a nasty curve.“What makes you think that, Ansley?”
“SawThe New Yorker in the trash in the library. I hadn’t read it yet, so I plucked it out and discovered where your scissors had done their work.”
He glowered the rest of the way home, which was only two miles. As they pulled into the garage he shut off the motor, reached over, and grabbed her wrist.“You’re not as smart as you think you are. Leave it alone.”
“I’d like to know if I’m living with a killer.” She baited him. “What if I get in your way?”
He raised his voice.“Goddammit, I played a joke on Marilyn Sanburne. It wasn’t the most mature thing to do, but it was fun considering how she’s cracked the whip over my head and everyone else’s since year one. Just keep your mouth shut.”
“I will.” Her lips clamped tight, making them thinner than they already were.
Without letting go of her wrist he asked,“Did you read the papers? The blue diary?”
“Yes.”
He released her wrist.“Ansley, every old Virginia family has its fair share of horse thieves, mental cases, and just plain bad eggs. What’s the difference if they were crooked or crazy in 1776 or today? One doesn’t air one’s dirty laundry in public.”
“Agreed.” She opened the door to get out, and he did the same on the driver’s side.
“Ansley.”
“What?” She turned from her path to the door.
“Did you really think, for one minute, that I killed Kimball Haynes?”
“I don’t know what to think anymore.” Wearily she reached the door, opened it, and without checking behind her, let it slam, practically crunching Warren’s nose in the process.
42
Harry, Mrs. Hogendobber, and Deputy Cooper exhausted themselves reading. Mim’s connection to Thomas Jefferson was through the Wayles/Coolidge line. Ellen Wayles Randolph, his granddaughter, married Joseph Coolidge, Jr., on May 27, 1825. They had six children, and Mim’s mother was related to a cousin of one of those offspring.
Slender though it was, it was a connection to the Sage of Monticello. Ellen maintained a lively correspondence with her husband’s family. Ellen, the spark plug of Maria’s—or Polly’s—children, inherited her grandfather’s way with words just as her older brother, called Jeff, inherited his great-grandfather’s, Peter Jefferson’s, enormous frame and incredible strength.
One of the letters casually mentioned that Ellen’s younger brother, James Madison Randolph, had fallen violently in love with a great beauty and seemed intent upon a hasty marriage.
Harry read and reread the letter, instantly conceiving an affection for the effervescent author.“Miranda, I don’t remember James Madison Randolph marrying.”
“I’m not sure. Died young though. Just twenty-eight, I think.”
“These people had such big families.” Deputy Cooper wailed as the task had begun to overwhelm her. “Thomas Jefferson’s mother and father had ten children. Seven made it to adulthood.”
Miranda pushed back her half-spectacles. When they slid down her nose again she took them off and laid them on the diary before her.“Jane, his favorite sister, died at twenty-five. Elizabeth, the one with the disordered mind, also died without marrying. The remainder of Thomas’s brothers and sisters bequeathed to Virginia and points beyond quite a lot of nieces and nephews for Mr. Jefferson. And he was devoted to them. He really raised his sister Martha’s children, Peter and Sam Carr. Dabney Carr, who married Martha, was his best friend, as you know.”
“Another Martha?” Cynthia groaned. “His wife, sister, and daughter were all named Martha?”
“Well, Dabney died young, before thirty, and Thomas saw to the upbringing of the boys,” Miranda went on, absorbed. “I am convinced it was Peter who sired four children on Sally Hemings. A stir was caused when Mr. Jefferson freed, or manumitted, one of Sally’s daughters, Harriet, quite the smashing beauty. That was in 1822. You can understand why the Jefferson family closed ranks.”